


Marital Relations

by stratumgermanitivum



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Blood, Blood As Lube, Blood Drinking, DON'T PUT YOUR TONGUE THERE, Don't Try This At Home, Gunshot Wounds, Inappropriate contact with injuries, M/M, Oh god, Rough Kissing, Rough Sex, Serious Injuries, Violence, do you want bloodborn pathogens because this is how you get bloodborn pathogens, i have no idea how to tag this, poking fingers and tongues in holes that shouldn't be there, sex not on top of a corpse but very adjacent to it, sexual contact with wounds, so much blood, unless you want pain and infections, yes i know it doesn't work that way
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-27
Updated: 2019-09-27
Packaged: 2020-10-29 08:42:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20793842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stratumgermanitivum/pseuds/stratumgermanitivum
Summary: They don't fall over the cliff. They fall to their knees, and then to the ground, a haze of blood and love. Pain and suffering and affection, the way it has always been for them.





	Marital Relations

**Author's Note:**

> Look I know people hate ridiculous tags but I genuinely don't know how to tag what happens in this fic. It's not even that bizarre, I don't think, I just have no idea what short phrases would be the best tags for it and I wanted to get my point across.
> 
> It IS pretty graphic though, so proceed with caution. Written for FlyingRotten's Gorefest.

“It’s beautiful.”

The FBI has no idea where they are. If they’re lucky, and it seems to Will that Hannibal is incredibly lucky, no one will find them for hours.

So, when Hannibal nuzzles into the hollow of his throat, when Will’s legs give out beneath him, when they collapse into the thick and spreading pool of the Dragon’s blood, neither of them are in much of a hurry.

Will had landed on his knees, but Hannibal wastes little time getting him onto his back. Will’s shirt is soaked through, his hair sticky. He thinks he can feel Dolarhyde’s leg brushing his scalp. “Always need to be in control,” Will whispers.

“I let you be in control for three years,” Hannibal reminds him, “indulge me a little.”

The fingertips on Will’s right hand are tingling, an unpleasant numbness spreading up from his wrist. That arm is never going to work properly again, too many injuries to the same damn shoulder.

They are both a mess, covered in blood, some of it their own. Hannibal doesn’t bother with buttons; Will’s shirt is ruined anyway. He rips it open, letting the buttons scatter across the rocks, their soft noises muted entirely by the liquid.

Will supposes there are worse places for a first time. They’ve waited long enough, and Hannibal looks so very hungry above him. He eases Will’s shirt off his good shoulder, ignoring the way Will reaches for him after.

“Don’t- Hannibal!” Hannibal yanks the shirt off entirely, jostling Will’s newest stab wound even though he should know better. Will yelps and jerks and Hannibal pushes his numb wrist back down against the ground.

And then he stops, staring. Will imagines the picture he makes, skin stained black in the moonlight. He drags his fingers through it, reaching up to leave a handprint wrapped around Hannibal’s arm. “I’m real,” Will says, seeing right through him, right into the depths of Hannibal’s thoughts. They are no longer beginning to blur. They overlap entirely, Hannibal printed over Will printed over Hannibal. Violent ouroboros. “I’m real this time.”

Hannibal flinches, and then drops, hovering over Will on all fours, his mouth pressed to Will’s collarbone.

“You imagined me,” Will says, as Hannibal works bites and kisses over the undamaged skin there, “You imagined me, as I imagined you, and one day we looked up and wondered where reality began.”

Hannibal’s mouth presses over the stab wound. Will had expected it, but it hurts anyway, the slow drag of a hot tongue over the damaged and sensitized nerve endings. He pins Will in place when Will thrashes, drags sharp teeth over the frayed layers of skin, epidermis, stratum corneum through stratum germinativum, dermis, hypodermis, through to the tissue, to the muscle, a bite down to Will’s very core. He counts the levels, distances himself from the pain with forgotten anatomy lessons, until Hannibal bites again to draw him back.

“Are you with me, Will?”

Will thinks he went away somewhere. He thinks he’s going into shock. He thinks he’s going to die if he doesn’t get Hannibal’s teeth back in him.

This is what they are. Blood and pain and teeth. Dissociation from pain is dissociation from _them_. Will fights it back, hauls Hannibal in close. Hannibal presses a kiss to his cheek, over the slit the Dragon left behind.

Their first kiss is inverted. Hannibal laps the blood from Will’s cheek, then probes into the cut with his tongue, into and _through_ until his tongue touches Will’s teeth and Will scratches red lines over the back of his neck. There second kiss is more traditional, Hannibal’s mouth on Will’s, his copper tongue seeking out every drop of blood Will hasn’t yet swallowed.

Somehow, Hannibal gets the rest of their clothes off. Will imagines it’s a lot harder for him, given the bullet wound, but he seems determined. Everything is ruined, all the nice clothes Hannibal squirreled away for the two of them. He’d had an entire closet just for Will; it had hurt to look at.

Now everything hurts, his spine digging into the ground, Hannibal’s nails digging into his hips. Hannibal’s fingers disappear and come back dripping with blood, spearing Will open, another stab of pain to add to the list, another ragged gasp of breath.

They’re drying already, patches of tacky blood peeling off Will’s skin as Hannibal rubs over them. It’s not slick enough to ease the way, but neither of them can stop now. Hannibal lines himself up and Will hauls him down, sinking his teeth into Hannibal’s throat at the same time Hannibal sinks into him. They hurt together, they _bleed_ together. Hannibal pulls Will up by the hair, aiming for a gentler kiss, but there is nothing gentle about them. Raw and bleeding, making love with a corpse for Will’s pillow, red sheets for their marital bed.

Will’s fingertips find the entrance wound from the bullet. It shot clean through to the other side, a tunnel through Hannibal’s body. Will hooks his finger into the wound, knuckle deep and pulling, widening it, making it his. Hannibal pants into the hole in Will’s cheek, Hannibal-in-Will-in-Hannibal, rocking through whines and grunts. Hannibal’s hand leaves a red trail down Will’s stomach, wrapping around him and tugging, too tight, too dry. Will retaliates with fangs once more, imprints of teeth over someone else’s bruises. Nobody should be on Hannibal but Will. Nobody should be on Will but Hannibal.

The peak comes all at once, startling, unexpected. Will thrashes and cries and digs his nails into the split in Hannibal’s flesh. When the tears come, overstimulated and overwhelmed, Hannibal laps those up as well.

Hannibal will consume any piece that Will allows him, and Will knows he’ll want the same of Will. Hannibal’s teeth grind together, his body winds tight. Will pulls his hand free of Hannibal’s body and, Hannibal’s eyes on the red curve of his lips, sucks the blood free of his index finger.

Will already feels saturated straight through, soaked from head to toe, but it’s different when Hannibal comes. When Hannibal pulses inside him, fills Will with life and love and blood. They’re both sweat damp and trembling, euphoria giving way to the reality of the human body, and still Hannibal clings, presses his body over Will’s and pins him down.

“I’m real,” Will says, “I’m real and you have carved a place in me. As I will carve a place in you.”

Hannibal laughs, breathless, helpless. His retreat is marked by pain, an ache that will become a reminder, Will’s every motion twined through with _Hannibal_.

“You need stitches,” Hannibal says, cupping Will’s injured cheek.

“Don’t look so disappointed.”

Hannibal’s finger trails the edge of the cut, prods lightly where Will has begun to swell.

“You’ll still be in me,” Will tells him, “Your scars. Your hands. We’ll be opened up and laid bare.”

“Perhaps, next time, in a bed?” Hannibal suggests, and Will _laughs_.

**Author's Note:**

> I have always wanted to shove my username into a fic and have always been mad that I never could despite how much FORENSIC SCIENCING they do.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Ouroboros](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21399094) by [whispers-in-the-chrysalis (RenJaegerjaques)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/RenJaegerjaques/pseuds/whispers-in-the-chrysalis)


End file.
